Do Not Stand On My Grave and Weep
by Pleasanttrouble
Summary: Following the events with Apocrophos (right after Hallow ends) Allen runs from the Order and the Noah, hiding where he can. At the same time, Sherlock is locked in the Great Game with Moriarty, and he is looking for the American Ambassador's kidnapped children. Cover not mine
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I know how much you all hate seeing these at the start of a story, but I just have a few things to say before I start with the story. Firstly, thank you for clicking on this, and taking the time to read this, I thank you immensely for your, hoped for, encouragement and appreciation of this. I will love all comments and statements toward this work (even flames). Just knowing that someone is reading this might persuade me to continue writing this for you all.**_

 _ **I can almost guarantee that this entire story will be rewritten at a later date, so I am going to apologize now for the likely short and less than satisfactory writing style on my part. I have challenged myself to update this story daily for the entirety of November. Wish me luck!**_

 _ **Standard Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or DGM, credit goes to the companies with the rights to these, and I don't profit whatsoever from this. (I don't think)**_

Allen Walker didn't know why he was cursed. Not his arm and eye, those were from the curse his adopted father placed upon him when he tried to resurrect him after the carriage accident. Rather, it was the curse that made sure everything that could go wrong, did.

He had joined the black order so that he could save the souls of the Akuma and those that had called them back to this plane of existence. His left hand was to save the Akuma, his right for the humans.

It had been a simpler time then, a world of blacks and whites, humans versus Akuma and the Millennium Earl. Then he had met Rhode Kamelot and began to question the truths he believed. He had learned that there were humans that worked with the earl, the Clan of Noah, the masters and mistresses of the Akuma.

Then he boarded the Ark, a sort of pocket dimension that the Clan used to travel quickly from one place to another, as well as a living space when they needed solace from the humans and their destruction of the world. In the fight for the lives of his companions, Allen ended up in the room of the Fourteen, a Noah that wasn't even supposed to exist, the Musician, who shared control of the Ark with the Earl and could manipulate the Ark as well.

Now his position was questioned by the other members of the Order, and the Clan. Was he the fourteenth reincarnate? Was he a Noah already? Was he ever truly on the side of the light? Why would he have done these things if he was working for the other side the whole time? He was shunned by those who he hadn't interacted much within the short time he'd been there, and those who came from other headquarters who had only heard of his role in the acquisition of the Ark.

And then everything went to Hell in a handbasket.

The Noah's attacked the headquarters with their most dangerous of soul bound weapons, a level four that destroyed the headquarters, killing many, and revealing a new form of innocence in the crystalline type, a form-based from the blood of the wielder, making it a cross between the parasitic and the equipment types. The following change of headquarters was smoother than it would have been without the use of the Ark, and though Allen's position within the order was still questioned by those who didn't know him, he was respected for his fighter ability and those he saved during the Level Four attack.

And Allen's Master, General Marian Cross, who had been missing from the Order for years, who they had only just gotten back, was murdered in his room, the crime scene found by Allen when his Golem, Timcanpy, flew off. Another strike into an already questionable life that was Allen Walker's.

Following this was the arrival of the Third Exorcist program, made from the mix of the corpse of Alma Karma, Kanda's old friend, and an Akuma. This just begged for trouble, and the Earl was delighted to oblige, being able to manipulate the genes of the Akuma within them as their master. The Earl returned to awake the comatose Alma, whose existence was only known by very few scientists within the Asian Branch of the Order, causing another battle to the death between Kanda and Alma, during which Allen was impaled by Kanda while protecting Alma from him, thereby awakening is inner Noah. The battle ended with Allen opening an Ark gate to an unknown location for the pair to die peacefully, where their bodies would not be experimented upon again, and refused to answer where he had sent them.

Allen was locked away for this act of treason, and his primary awakening as the fourteenth. Thus introduced a new enemy to all sides, the independent innocence known as Apocrophos, who was the true killer of Master Cross, and he has now come to kill Allen, who is a threat to the Heart, the source of all Innocence power, as a Noah. Allen's guard, who is simply there to follow him and report everything found out back to the Vatican, manages to distract him, with the help of Tyki and Rhode, two Noah that Allen has fought in the past, distract Apocrophos long enough for Allen to escape with his life and his Golem, Rhode being gravely injured during an attack from Aphocrophos.

Allen's innocence reacts to Apocrophos, leaving Allen near defenseless without his weapon, and with his Noah fighting for control of his body, Allen runs from the Order to better understand his situation and to try to regain control of his life. Tyki helps him and after bidding farewell, they part ways as good as friends two enemies can be.

 _ **A/N: Again, I am so sorry for the length.**_


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had entered into the final problem, or that was what his arch enemy, James "Jim" Moriarty was calling it. If he was being honest with himself, Sherlock was enjoying every moment of this, even if his responses were, as John put it, "A bit not good".

The children of the Ambassador to America had been kidnaped and Sherlock had been personally requested to find them. Usually, he would have solved it in less than a minute, called them all idiots for even pulling him from a far more interesting topic, and walked away, feeling good about having completed his task, but not letting anyone know. When John had shown him the envelope of bread crumbs that had arrived that morning, he put the pieces together and realized that Moriarty had told him this would occur and he had to find those children before they were dead.

That was how he found himself in his practically home away from home, the forensics department of Saint Bartholomew's hospital in London, identifying the components of the boot prints that he has acquired from the son's room at the boarding school. He had his homeless network out searching for places that filled requirements that the already identified components offered, narrowing the search space. The final location was that of an abandoned chocolate factory on the west side of the city.

The moment that this location was realized, Sherlock, John, Lestrade and his men were on the move to find the children before their time ran out.

The wrappers of the chocolate that the children had been feeding upon were painted in mercury. With each bite they ate, the hungrier they got, the more mercury they consumed. They were slowly poisoning themselves.

"Over here" Donovan called, standing over the children, the girl, still awake, curled up beside her unconscious older brother.

"I have another one over here," Lestrade said, crouching beside another figure on the dirty concrete floor.

"The American ambassador only had two children. It's probably just part of my homeless network." Sherlock said, glancing at the figure, seeing nothing of interest and moving on. It was an old man, judging by the hair, and homeless, judging by the grim collected on his slightly raged clothes.

Touching his shoulder gently, Lestrade turned the form before jumping back, "My God."

"He's not dead, I can hear him breathing from here." Sherlock said, standing from the children curled around each other, "It's rather bothersome, actually. If he's going to die, he should just do it already."

"Sherlock!" John berated, still a bit surprised by the hostility Sherlock could have for those he viewed as less than himself. He wasn't sure why it even surprised him anymore.

"Not good?" He knew it was bad and he wasn't even going to try hiding it.

"Not even close!" John rose from the children, finding them stable enough that he could check over the other body while they waited for the ambulance to arrive.

"Sherlock." Lestrade murmured, turning the figure onto his back so the other could see who the form was.

The face of the body did not match the age John had expected given the color of the hair. He was young, sixteen at the most, his face still holding some of that baby fat teenage boys had while going through puberty. An angry red scar cut through his left eye, starting as an upside-down pentagram hidden partially by his snow-white bangs, a line leading down through his brow and eye, curving with his cheekbone, following the line of his jaw to just above his chin. It stood out harshly again his pale skin. Lifting the left sleeve of the boy, he was met with an entirely black arm, not the dark brown of someone of heavy African background, but black as if he had dipped it in a bucket of paint. Looking closer, he found that the color was too perfect to be painted or dipped in anything, it was his skin. Perhaps it was an overly extensive tattoo. Remembering himself, John searched for the pulse at his wrist, finding an erratic beat, to soft and fast.

"Allen." Sherlock breathed, crouching beside the boy as well, hands fluttering as if he wanted to help but didn't know how. "You're supposed to be dead."

"Sherlock, you're coat," John said, seeing the worry in his usually fairly stoic companion, missing his whispered statement.

"What?" He blinked in confusion, what was wrong with his coat that John had mentioned it.

"He's freezing, give him your coat."

That made sense. Quickly he slipped out of it, laying it carefully over the boy he had never expected to see again.

Almost cautiously, Sherlock brushed some hair from the boy's eyes, almost scared he would break under his hand.

A hand had grabbed his wrist suddenly, unexpectedly golden eyes blazing at him from the face of the boy, "who-" his head whipped around, looking at those around him but not truly seeing.

"You're alright." John said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, "we're here to help. We'll look after you for now."

His eyes slid shut again, "not safe." His right hand moved to rub his left shoulder, "keep walking, never stop, keep moving forward." then he was unconscious again, one final word on his lips, "Mana."

"Mana?" John questioned, looking between his flatmate and the Detective Inspector, "does that mean anything to either of you?"

"Mana Walker was his adopted father. Vehicular manslaughter." Sherlock informed, still gazing down at the boy, "Simple case, open and shut. They were part of my Network for the short time they were here. I thought the boy had died. It's not uncommon for orphans to fall through the cracks. I hadn't thought of him in years." He sounded almost apologetic that he'd forgotten a boy he had no discernable connection with.

There was the sound of approaching sirens and wheels on the grave outside the factory, "Ambulance is here." Lestrade announced needlessly, stepping back.

Sherlock, in a very un-Sherlock fashion, scooped the unconscious boy up, being sure to keep the coat wrapped snugly around him. He led the way to the ambulance, staying with him to the hospital.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was distracted through the next day, the day leading up to the fall that Moriarty had promised him. The cards had been placed, the chips only needing to fall, much like himself. He had made his final call to John, left his note for his following "suicide". All that was left was to fall. John would be shattered by his action. He was already breaking, it was in his voice over the phone. They were both breaking.

Now Sherlock was scared. Terrified would be more apt a term, but he wouldn't admit that his emotions had taken a hold of him so strongly. Unexpectedly, his mind flashed to an almost angelic face, smiling at him. Young Allen, the boy who had lost his father, been taken in as an apprentice by an old family friend. He knew the boy wasn't dead, he just wished that those eyes hadn't met him. He knew that color, he knew the pain that would come from it. He pitied the boy, hoping that he wouldn't have to take part in that war.

Taking another shaky breath to calm himself, Sherlock took the step and plummeted toward the hard concrete.

He hoped John wouldn't hate him too much for this.

Allen's eyes fluttered open, looking up blandly at the white ceiling of the hospital room. He didn't remember how he got there. To be honest, he didn't remember much more than vague sensations from the last three months.

A nurse walked in, smiling slightly, "ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

He sat up slightly on the bed, leaning heavily against the wall, "I've felt better." he admitted.

She nodded with a smile, "I'll tell you're doctor that you're awake."

He smiled back emptily, "Thank you."

Once she was gone, Allen dragged himself from the bed, moving to the window. Looking out he found a bustling city, people living their lives, going to lunch in restaurants around the block, people doing so chores while on break, a man talking on a phone staring straight at him, people simply living their lives.

Wait, what was that last one?

His eyes focused on the sandy-haired man dressed in a simple jumper and slacks, phone pressed to his ear, staring up at him from across the street. Allen watched the man as he spoke, eyes never moving. He took a step forward, but then one back as if placating someone, or as if he didn't want to startle an injured animal. Then his phone left his ear and he looked like he was calming himself. But that wasn't annoyance on his face, that was distress, whatever news he was getting, it wasn't good. Then the phone was up again and he was talking, face obviously pained, the body moving as if he was begging someone to rethink a decision on the other end of the line.

Then Allen's view was blocked by a figure falling past him, and the man was running toward the building.

The man had been speaking with a jumper, begging him not to end his life.

The person who the man had begged had jumped.

The Earl would be there soon with his offer.

Allen felt sick to his stomach.

He fell to his knees, unconscious by the time the doctor arrived to check on him.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Warning that this chapter is a bit longer than previous ones. Just wanted to thank those who are reading this story, even though it's not very good at the moment, and maybe beg for a few reviews? I'm curious as to what you guys actually think when reading this, but enough of me blabbering needlessly, on with the story!**_

John didn't understand. He'd always had such confidence in his flatmate, his best friend. But now that friend was dead, and everything he had ever know about him had been a lie for two years? That didn't seem possible, it was simply too absurd. Sherlock Holmes had done many wonderful and questionable things, but this was simply absurd. Why would one go to such extent to lie about who he was? He knew the answer to that, so he asked himself another, his friend's blood drying on his hands and clothes. If this was all a lie, how did he keep up a mask that had seemed so genuine, and gotten a brother that played along with this extravagant charade so well? The more people you bring into a lie, the harder it is to keep that lie. And lies are always seeded in truth. If this was a lie, what had been the truth behind it, why had he done it? Surely John couldn't have been the target the whole time.

No, Sherlock was many things, but he wasn't one to lie without drastic needs, and when he did lie, it was never for extended reasons beyond confusing a witness into admitting some important information for the case he had been working on at the time. Was John just another one of his cases?

John shook his head, knocking away the confusion and pain he was feeling for the moment, no, Sherlock wouldn't spend this much time on a case. But that wasn't true now, was it? Sherlock would just flit between cases as they caught his attention. Maybe John was one he worked on between his other cases?

John sighed, placing his head in his hands. It wouldn't do him any good to think himself into circles, and that was all he was doing now.

Sighing, John stood from where he had slumped in the chairs in front of the morgue, walking away. His thoughts shifted from Sherlock to the boy he'd met the day prior. He hadn't heard any updates on his condition, and Sherlock had seemed interested in the boy.

Felling his doctor side taking over, John walked more confidently. He had time to mourn when he wasn't needed as a doctor. He had learned that in Afghanistan. Emotions don't help in a serious situation. He'd learned to be stoic during surgery, he simply hadn't had much use for what he had found as a clinic doctor rather than a surgeon.

Stepping into the boy's room, he found him staring out the window with a blank expression, eyes unfocused. Gaining no reaction when he knocked gentle on the wall by the door, John continued forward, scooping up the clipboard at the end of his bed.

Name: John Roe

Age: 14-19

Injuries/infections: Patient shows signs of starvation and exhaustion.

No signs of drug abuse

Possible hyperglycemia

Possible hypothermia

many scars caused by various weapons

Stone embedded in left hand (old injury, healed well)

"I'm sorry about your friend." A voice asked, drawing John's attention from the board to the patient it described. The boy's gaze had shifted from the window to the doctor, eyes unexpectedly concerned.

"I'm sorry?" He asked in confusion by the statement and concern, lowering the clipboard and moving to take the chair beside the bed.

"There is nothing wrong with mourning the lost, just don't let it consume you." The boy said, dropping his gaze to his hands, quickly moving to hid his left hand under the blankets in his bed.

John raised an eyebrow, "That's oddly mature."

The boy shrugged, "Maybe."

There was a minute of silence that dug its claws into John harshly until he couldn't take it anymore, "I'm Doctor John Watson." He said, offering a hand for the boy to shake.

The boy offered a small smile, taking it, "Allen."

John quirked a brow, "No last name?"

Allen shook his head sadly, "No, just Allen."

"How old are you Allen?"

"Sixteen." He said, eyes rising back to the doctor's face. "Where are we? I didn't recognize the street outside the window."

John noted this down on the boy's sheet. "You were unconscious when we brought you in, so I'm not surprised. We're in London."

"London?" Allen's eyes widened, "I haven't been here since..." His words died on his lips, a shadow crossing over his face.

"You're father?" John finished for him.

"I think I stayed in the countryside for a month after that, but I don't remember much from that time. I was told I had a high fever from the infection." His hand rose to cover his left eye, and the scar that ran through it. Shaking his head, he brought a smile back to his face, "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, the memories can be painful at times."

John couldn't imagine what the boy had seen to cause such pain in his eyes. There was more there than just a deceased father.

"Can I offer you a piece of advice, Dr. Watson?" Allen asked suddenly.

"Of course," John said, putting the board back in his lap.

"Just let the dead stay dead, it will only cause you and others pain if you try to hold on too long."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Yes. A good friend of mine just lost his love. He died in his arms. I haven't seen him since, but I suspect that he's dead as well."

John nodded solemnly, recalling what the boy had said a few minuted prior, "How did you know I've just lost a good friend?"

"Your eyes are red, you were crying earlier." The boy said, diverting his gaze again.

John let out a pained laugh, "You're like him. You read people?"

Allen shook his head, "I saw him fall. I was looking out the window when you were on your phone pleading with him, trying to figure out where I was."

"Oh." A silence fell between them again.

Allen broke it this time, "Not that I don't appreciate you're company, Dr. Watson, but why are you so interested in me?"

"Sherlock was interested in you, and I was wondering why. He isn't...wasn't, one to find interest in normal things, such as teens unconscious in derelict buildings from apparent drug overdoses."

"Sherlock?" Allen pressed slightly, "You're friend?"

John nodded, smiling sadly, "yes. You know, it's rather odd to speak with someone who has never heard of him."

Allen smiled back, slightly embarrassed, "I don't really hear much about the world. I was rather secluded for a while. We weren't really allowed out much. Kept on short leashes, I suppose you could say."

"I expect you'd want me to call someone to tell them you're alright and where you are?" John said, standing.

"No." was the immediate reply, sounding almost frantic, but also almost sad. "No, thank you, Dr. Watson-"

"John, please."

"-They can't know where I am."

"You ran away from home?" John asked, retaking the seat.

Allen nodded, "Yes," He saw the concerned expression on John's face, "Don't worry, I've lived on the street before, I'll be fine."

"When did you run away?"

"Just after my friend left."

"You one whose lover died?"

"Yes."

"How old was he?"

"19, I think. None of us really discussed age, we just knew that we were similar ages. I was the youngest. That was until Timothy joined us."

"How old is Timothy?"

"He's nine. He doesn't deserve this life, not that any of us really do, but he's too young."

"Were you abused in that house?"

Allen laughed, "Not seriously, no. The worse injury I got there was probably a kick in the head from Lenalee." He smiled sadly, "We were a family. We needed to be."

"What happened?"

"Just a falling out, I suppose. But, death doesn't really clear one's conscious of their past."

"Whose death? Yours? Lenalee's? You're friend's lover?" John sat further forward in his seat, forgetting the board in his lap, to interested in this boy.

"My master." Allen said head bowed, "He was murdered in his room. They thought I was to blame, but I'd been under suspicion for other happenings for a few months by then."

"So you're running from the police as well?"

"I'm not a murderer!" Allen said harshly, glaring at John for a moment, before feeling guilt, "I will never be a murderer."

"Why did you run? Didn't you know that would make you look guilty?"

"Because his killer came after me. It was the only choice I saw."

"No one would help you?"

"I had help escaping. They got me out of there, they had to send me on alone to avoid suspicion."

"Where were you?"

"I can't say that."

"Don't you want the others safe from you're attacker?"

"They're safest where they are. My master and I were the only ones in danger there."

"Then why did you stay?"

"Because I didn't know what had happened until he came after me."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know, I don't remember much since that night. And even less, sequentially."

"When did you leave?"

"I was in France in February, so March, I think." He said after much thought.

"Do you know what the date is?"

"I'm sorry to say that I have no idea."

"It in November twenty-first. That was six months ago."

"I've been running for six months?" Allen asked incredulously.

"What were you doing in France in February?"

Allen didn't respond, just staring off into space.

"Allen?" John placed a hand on his, shaking it slightly, "Allen, can you hear me?"

"I've been gone for six months." He whispered, "I've been running for six months and don't remember any of it."

"You could have gotten a concussion. Or maybe something happened that affected you so badly you blocked out the memories. It's not an uncommon occurrence."

"Maybe." Allen murmured, sounding unsure. Suddenly his eyes refocused, body going tense "How long have I been here?"

"We brought you in yesterday."

He relaxed minimally, "I'll probably be safe for a another day. When can I leave?"

"I think we should do an MRI, just to check if you have a concussion, and you're highly malnourished, as well as underweight. Do you self-harm, bulimia, anorexia?"

"Not intentionally. It's likely I haven't gotten much for decent food while on the run. It's difficult to get a job when you're moving around a lot and trying to stay unnoticed. I suffer from an abnormally fast metabolism."

"Do you know why you were in that warehouse?"

Allen shook his head, "Probably just seeking shelter for the night before moving on."

There was a silence again. This time it didn't feel oppressive, more companionable.

Another doctor came in, giving John a surprised look, "John, what are you still doing here? You should be at home-"

"The flat is the last place I should be right now."

"You'll have to face it eventually."

"Just not today."

Allen placed a hand on John's arm reassuringly, looking at the doctor in the doorway knowingly, "Time is the best thing to heal these kinds of wounds. The stupidest decisions are made in moments of emotional pain."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was surprised to find John still at the hospital. He'd expected John would have left hours ago, finding comfort in someone, perhaps his friend Mike Stanford. I spark of jealousy rose in his chest, but he squashed it quickly enough. John deserved a better friend than him, he had no right to think John would devote all his time to him simply because they were flat mates.

Perhaps he'd been worth so little to the man he hadn't cared for the consulting detective at all, and his 'death' hadn't meant anything. Maybe is was all just an act.

John hadn't even washed the blood from his hands before going to see the boy. John knew the importance of not mixing blood, his death had affected him after all. Taking another step into the room, Sherlock ran another eye over the boy. Those eyes were staring directly at him, picking him apart like he was the boy. Cautious, he was a fighter. Even if he looked relaxed, there was still a tenseness to his hand hidden under the sheet. Deciding that if he was going to play a doctor, he might as well act it, he moved to read the boy's vitals on the monitors, "How are you feeling, Mr. Campbell?"

He stiffened again, eyes narrowing, glaring into Sherlock's back, "I don't know who you are referring to, there is no one here by that name." Allen growled out through clenched teeth.

"You're tone says differently."

"Of course it does! I'm lost and scared and have no idea how I got here!" Allen cried, playing the poor, defenseless child card, effectively seeming younger than he was.

"Still playing the defenseless victim? I thought you'd have grown past that by now."

"And you're still immature." There was a smile on Allen's lips now, and Sherlock couldn't miss the further relaxation, "Hello, Andrew, long time, no see." He offered his hand to shake, the normal one that wasn't hidden beneath the covers.

He took it, slipping a piece of paper into Allen's hand, "Same to you, Allen. How's dear old Marian doing?"

"Dead." was the blank response.

Sherlock nodded, locking that away from later, "That is unfortunate. How are you feeling, honestly?" He asked, hand moving to the boy's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, if not a little uncertainty.

Allen rolled his shoulders slightly, twisting a bit, "Just a bit stiff, but I'll be fine."

"Dr. Watson." Sherlock said, calling the ignored man back into the conversation, "What is your diagnosis of Allen?"

"Since he has no guardian in his paperwork, and from his sheet and personal observation, I think that he should stay another night for observation." He turned to Allen now, "Additionally, I believe that you should have an MRI done, just be sure that you didn't hit your head during you amnesiac state."

During this time, Sherlock had taken his leave, certain that John wouldn't be to adversely affected by his death. At least for now.

Allen always had a calming effect on people, even if they didn't notice it most of the time.

And John would need someone to take care of while he was gone.

He smiled to himself slightly, discarding the white coat as he went, dropping it on a chair in an unconscious patient's room and few doors down. He'd have to get this job done as quickly as he could to get back to his hedgehog and Allen.

Allen looked at the small folded piece of clutched in his hand. Unfolding it, he found six words: Look after him until I return.-SH


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: I've been writing these up a day early for you guys, but you might not get a chapter tomorrow. I was going to write the next chapter after classes today but I had an accident with my car and didn't get home as early as I was hoping I would. I'm fine, not even bruised, but I don't know how my car will fare.**_

 _ **Shout out to Happycafegirl, OrguMiMi, and Symphony of Diamonds for favoriting, I should have called you guys out earlier, but Happycafegirl is the only one my Email bothered to tell me about.**_

 _ **Anyway, enough about me, enjoy the next chapter!**_

The following years went about as smoothly as two war scarred soldiers could have. John had never gone back to Baker Street following the fall. He had felt sorry for the boy and given him a place to stay in the beginning, thinking Allen would only be there for a month at most before moving on, as Allen kept saying, but the time just never seemed right and they lived together companionably. John never asked questions about Allen's past beyond what he had learned that first day, and Allen respected John's privacy (unlike a certain consulting detective never had).

The first month had been hard for both of them, John because he'd be speaking to Sherlock, or complaining about something, then realize that his flatmate wasn't there and he wasn't and number 221B. Allen's first month had been calmer, but no less hard, memories that weren't his still surfacing, a voice in the back of his head that would never shut up, always nagging him to give up control, nightmares that the war had ended and that he'd left his friends to die.

Allen had stayed originally to make sure John didn't do anything he would later regret, if he had the chance to regret it. At least, that's what he had said in the beginning, but as the weeks passed, he felt himself becoming closer to the former army surgeon, thinking maybe he might have found a new family in this man.

It was a year after the fall that John could persuade himself to write his blog again, Allen reading it avidly after finding out. There were still moments where the pain of lose would resurface, but that would never fade completely.

Six months after that he met Mary Morstan. They had hit it off spectacularly and Allen couldn't be happier for the man. John deserved to be happy, and if Mary made John happy wihtout putting him in needless danger, Allen had nothing to say against her.

Mary was amused by the boy John had taken in, and rather interested in his story. She didn't know much about him, except that he didn't have anyone to look after him or anywhere to go. He was quick with comebacks if insulted, and participated in friendly banter quite willingly. Although, she was saddened by the fact that he never seemed to go out with anyone, she liked him, thought of him a son. She could see the pain in his eyes sometimes, but he kept it hidden from her. Even so, there were moments where his past would come back to him and he'd retreat to his sparsely furnished room or out for a walk around the block depending on their location at the time.

It was three months after John and Mary began dating that Allen got a surprise from his old life. Allen was street performing for some extra money near Trafalgar Square one weekend when he saw them. A dapper gentleman in a suit with a girl beside him in a pretty dress.

"Uncle Tyki." She cried, tugging on his arm, pulling him toward where Allen was performing acrobatics, balancing on a ball.

He laughed slightly, allowing himself to be dragged "alright, baixinho, alright." They joined the crowd around Allen, ooing and ahing where appropriate and applauding at the end with the rest. When all the other tourists had filtered away, there were four figures left standing near Allen, the gentleman and his niece, as well as John and Mary who had been having lunch nearby.

"Allen, you're still as amazing as when we first met in Germany!" The girl cried, leaping at him.

"Rhode?!" He asked with a surprised laugh, catching her easily, "What are you doing here?"

"You sound unhappy to see us, shounen." Tyki chuckled, approaching more resignedly.

"Of course I am." Allen said with a grin that disagreed highly with his words, "You two have tried to kill me and my friends countless times, why would I want to see you again?"

John's eyes widened at this, and he went to step forward in Allen needed defending, when Mary grabbed his hand, shaking her head.

A grin grew on Tyki's face as he spread his arms slightly, "That's harsh, even for you, Shounen."

Allen grinned back, setting Rhode back on her feet before moving to stand before Tyki, barely having to look up anymore, "You know exactly how harsh I can be, don't you, my lord."

"You've grown bolder, Shounen." He murmured, holding Allen's eyes with his own, wrapping his arms around Allen in semblance of a hug.

"So that's why you never brought a girl home." John mused, earning a smack from Mary and a blush to rise in Allen's cheeks.

"Of course he's grown." Rhode said, wedging her way between them, "It's been two years since we last saw him. Oh, there's so much to tell you!" She squealed, tackling him again.

He laughed, "I take it you've been looking for me for a while?"

She shook her head, "We've been watching you for about a year now."

He sighed, rolling his eyes, "Why am I not surprised. You're doing, I take it?" He smiled down at her.

"But of course. Can't go losing you, now, can I?" She giggled, pecking him on the cheek, "You'll always be ours, Allen, don't forget that."

"Shounen, won't you introduce us to this lovely pair." Tyki said, gesturing toward John and Mary who were watching Allen's interaction with the pair of apparent strangers.

Sighing, Allen walked toward the doctor and nurse with his former enemies beside him, "John, Mary, these are the Lord Tyki Mikk and his niece Rhode Kamelot, visiting from Portugal. Rhode, Tyki, this is Dr. John Watson and Mary Morstan. I've been sharing a set of rooms with John for a little under two years now, as you probably know." He sent a slightly disapproving look at Rhode, who just giggled.

John shook hands with Tyki firmly, looking him over, "How did you meet Allen?"

Tyki laughed, "We met on a train. I was playing poker with a few buddies when one of Allen's friend's wandered in and we offered him a spot. He took it, but lost everything. Allen here not only won back his friend's belongings, but also all of ours, and our clothes, despite our heavily stacking the deck against him. Where were we, Allen?" He asked the boy, grinning despite saying he'd lost so badly.

Allen seemed to ponder this and Rhode played with his hair, that had grown longer during his vacation of sorts. "I'm not sure. I think we might have still been in Romania, but we might have crossed the boarder by then."

"Right, that was when I had gotten the job as a miner, wasn't it, shounen."

"Would you please stop calling me that, I'm not a child your can antagonize anymore, Tyki." Allen sighed.

"You're still a child in this, Allen." Rhode said, taking his hand reassuringly between her, "You may have lost you're childhood to this, but that doesn't mean you have to stop being a child. Where would be the fun if you acted mature like... actually, none of us are very mature, are we?" She laughed, swinging their hands slightly between them, "Aren't I right, Uncle Tyki?"

He let out a slightly forced chuckle with a strained smile, "Indeed." A clock chimed nearby, "Would you look at the time, we should get home before Sheryl worries to much and he skins me. Take care, Allen Walker. Dr, Watson." He said, nodding in acknowledgment, shaking the hand of each, "Miss Morstan." He murmured, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. He straightened, taking Rhode's hand in his, beginning to walk away.

"We'll see you again soon, Allen." Rhode called, waving back at them.

"I look forward to it like I look forward to seeing Leviere again." He grinned back, earning another giggle.

Sighing, Allen went back to packing away his equipment from his performance, "I'm sorry about them, not that anything I could have done would have made a difference." He told John and Mary.

"Good friends?" Mary asked, crouching to help him.

"As good a friend as you're attempted executioner can be." He smiled back, his smile not matching the darkness of the words.


End file.
